Annoying
by ClassyIndividual
Summary: Sherlock feels guilty after exposing john to the horrors in Baskerville, resulting in guiltiness, and inadvertently fluffy/emotional times. Rated M for Brief mentions of gore and drugs, sexy times, and language. I'm terrible with summaries. sorry.
1. Chapter 1

He can hear john's completely even foot falls as he runs up the stairs, accompanied with the sound of crinkling plastic. Two bags of groceries then. Most likely filled with packages of perishable food. Milk or cans would be too heavy, would throw his footsteps off slightly, would slow his pace a little. Sherlock takes pride in the thought that John wouldn't be leaping up the stairs if he wasn't a part of his life, that his John needed him and that Sherlock had positive influence on his life. That his john's life was considerably less _dull_ with him in it.

And that was the best thing a person could do for a friend, right?

There were so many Johns in the world, a small percentage of them war veterans, an even smaller percentage of them trained army doctors, and only one John was associated with the one and only consulting detective. _His_ John was completely unique. Well, every John was_ genetically _unique. His John had the training of a soldier, the insight of a doctor, and a genetic code and way of thinking that was useful to Sherlock in ways no one else's was. A convenient height, an un-intimidating facial structure and stature, an incredible amount patience, and a daunting loyalty and unearned trust in Sherlock. All of these things were incredibly helpful when it came to the work. And to him as a person.

All of these thoughts flitted through Sherlock's consciousness by the time John jumped up the last step. He heard John pause and sigh in the doorway upon seeing Sherlock curled into a ball on the couch, and he could practically see the fond eye roll that usually accompanied that particular sigh. John saved those sighs for Sherlock, usually huffing them when he saw Sherlock doing something he found endearing. Or, as he would normally put it "annoying".

"Don't mind me, I don't need help. But thanks for your concern."

Sherlock just laid there and stared at the stitching on the back of the couch as he listened to the familiar grumbling.

The sounds of bags being placed on the table accompanied the usual cacophony of sounds from the street outside. A stressed female called for a cab. The limping gait of an office worker- no, bus driver, sounded on pavement approximately a hundred meters from the cracked window in their living room.

Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn back into the kitchen as John paused what he was doing to breath a _Dammit Sherlock Not Again_ sigh, as he most likely inspected the new stain Sherlock's latest experiment had put on the table. Sherlock smirked and leapt up off the couch (stepping on the coffee table) and silently sauntered into the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow as he turned the corner to see John still bent over and looking at the blemished table surface. A tanned hand cradling his face as he supported his head on his left elbow, clearly trying to guess what had caused the latest discoloration. A quick gaze down John's body and the set of his shoulders confirmed that he was contemplating the potential causes, and was not at all angry or even surprised.

Sherlock could practically see the warm eyes, raised eyebrows, and quirked lips that John saved for the minor damage that scarred almost all their flat in a way that John found comfortingly constant. Or, as he would call it, annoying.

Sherlock let these thoughts fill his head as he stood behind johns form, taking one second to re-examine johns crossed legs, bent waist, and the two bags he must have lifted off the table and transferred to his right hand, momentarily distracted from putting them away. John was so easily distracted after coming back in the house. Sherlock's smirk grew into a lopsided smile at the thought. He walked forward, smoothly taking the bags from johns hand without slowing his pace as he saw John jump out of the corner of his eyes.

"Christ, Sherlock, don't startle me like that."

He heard the shuffle of feet and slight shifting of the table that meant that John was straightening his posture and placing both of his hands palm-down on the wooden surface. Pivoting on his heel he turned, now on the opposite end of the table, smirk and raised eyebrow still intact on his face. John raised an answering eyebrow of his own when he saw Sherlock's facial expression.

"Well, don't you look disturbingly happy? Should I call Lestrade and tell him that the next drug bust is long overdue?"

Sherlock placed the bags on the table, leaning back against the fridge as he answered.

"John, you know I paid my suppliers off to stop selling to me," his voice was scathing and almost jovial, his crooked smile stretching further across his face, "don't be daft."

John feigned being unconvinced, looking over the long lean line of Sherlock's body stretched out on the fridge.

"Is there a particularly dreadful experiment waiting for me in one of the closets? Did Lestrade Text you? Did you cover both of your arms in nicotine patches again?"

The sarcastic infliction on his voice faded into genuine concern as he muttered the last question, the hand he'd been running down his face lowering to reveal slightly worried eyes.

Sherlock scoffed.

"Only two on my left forearm. despite common belief, I don't fall blindly into my 'addictions', without seeing a reason to, so, stop acting like mummy," he looked disgusted for a minute," or Mycroft."

John chuckled and shook his head.

"Why do I even worry?"

"You are a doctor, you were trained to worry. Also, seeing as you are my only friend, it's only logical that you feel partially responsible for me. You're always comparing me to a child and you no doubt-"

He paused mid rant when he saw John's mouth hanging open.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he went through facts in his head.

"Something I have said has surprised you."

He tilted his head slightly and drew his eyebrows even closer.

John took a moment to think about how the gesture was oddly feline, and how adorable it was.

If you could categorize an emotionally stunted, self-proclaimed sociopathic genius as adorable.

The mop of perfect dark curls tilted even more to right as John shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thoughts that so often found a foothold in his consciousness.

The forty five degree angle of Sherlock's jaw stretched and flexed his pale neck, the top of his blue bath robe lying loosely on his jutting collar bones.

John swallowed.

_Fuck_ this was getting weird fast.

Impossibly bright blue-green eyes narrowed as they locked on the motion in the shorter man's throat.

There was an even weirder moment when John felt like he was being hunted by a wild animal.

And _damn,_ if wasn't incredibly hot.

John was painfully aware of Sherlock probably being able to dissect and see through everything he did and knowing exactly what he was struggling with.

Sherlock always knew.

It took almost no effort to fall into soldier mode, staring at the fridge behind Sherlock as he replied clearly,

"You've only called me your friend once before, I guess I'm still acclimating to hearing that word come out of your mouth."

_Fuck_. Don't think about his mouth.

He relaxed almost immediately after he had answered, smiling warmly at a serious Sherlock and turning curtly away, leaving Sherlock to put the groceries away.

Though he probably wouldn't.

He never did.

Sherlock glared at the plastic bags in front of him; briefly analyzing the conversation he just had before deciding to actually put things away.

He had upset John. He could deduce why.

The last time he had referred to John as friend, he had then proceeded to drug and traumatize him for the sake of a case.

Somehow Sherlock knew that friends were supposed to take precedent over the work, over the game.

His fists closed at his sides, the fingernails digging into his palms.

Images of john looking at him, trying to reason what Sherlock was planning to use him for this time _for why else would Sherlock use the term 'friend'?_, were pulled from his information bank and thrown into his vision. These images were shortly followed by the memory of john swallowing with repressed anger, of him going into soldier mode because he was so upset by Sherlock _daring _to use the term friend to his face again.

Sherlock hadn't meant to, the word had just slipped out.

How odd.

Long fingers worked their way under smokey curls, ruffling his no-longer-perfect but possibly-even-more-attractive hair.

Guilt had become an increasingly common emotion since John had moved in. After they had left the lab in Dartmoor, Sherlock had mentally run through all the ways the ordeal could affect johns PTSD. The list had been long. Thinking about it made him wince.

The monthly nightmares Sherlock heard from john's room had turned into to biweekly ones after they had gotten back from the moor. It was terrible for both of them. Sherlock, almost always awake, could hear the thrashing and the murmuring in the middle of the night, could hear John wake up and suppress whimpers as he laid in bed and calmed his breathing, could see him turn on his bedside lamp as he sat up on his bed, not trusting his brain to let him sleep without throwing him back into some blood splattered memory, or the drug induced hell Sherlock had put him through a month ago. Sherlock would watch with sad eyes as he noticed the way the lack of sleep was affecting his friend- his John, only to look away and pretend to be absorbed in something else when John turned his tired-but-trying _trying so hard not show his trauma, trying so hard to protect Sherlock from seeing what he had caused_ eyes on him, flooding Sherlock's incredible mind with sadness. These moments were usually followed by Sherlock quickly looking away and closing his eyes for a few seconds; a movement he saved for when John did something heart wrenching or self-deprecatingly brave. Or, as he liked to tell himself, annoying.

His jaw twitched as he started emptying the bags, briefly acknowledging that John had actually bought milk, orange juice, and some canned goods Sherlock had (_pestered John endlessly for) _requested for an experiment. An eyebrow rose towards his bangs as he made a note to adjust future predictions about John's strength and walking pace.

The sound of the shower being turned on filled the flat as Sherlock closed the fridge, leaning his forehead on the cool surface. A sneer found its way back onto his face as he reflected on the way he had felt for the past month._ Sherlock Holmes was becoming disgustingly sentimental of late _ the thought filled his head before it left him alone with the overwhelming guilt again, making him groan against the fridge door. These Emotions were so _-deserved, pointless, new, terrible-_

_annoying._


	2. Chapter 2

_So I think I'm going to start doing author notes. I'm just warning everyone that this might turn into smut** might.** I really like reviews (just like every other author). If I make any mistakes, or you feel like you have any suggesting that could improve my writing, feel free to tell me. Enjoy!_

* * *

Steam clouded the bathroom mirror by the time the water was switched off. John leant panting against the tile wall in the shower, letting the last of the hot water flow down his form and into the drain before slowly stepping out and pressing a towel to his face. His shaking hands pressing the material firmly against his eyes, trying desperately to think of anything besides the fact that he just jacked off while thinking of his best friend. Trying _and failing _to stop thinking about how this was becoming a sadly regular thing, about how he found his childish, arrogant, _male_ best friend attractive. Fuck.

This felt so wrong... Afterwards.

Fuck.

_I wouldn't have to do this if that sod stopped chasing off my girlfriends_

_Yeah I'll keep telling myself that_

Fuck.

He sighed into the towel, pulling it away from his face and wrapping it around his waist as he stepped forward and opened the door, practically walking into a fluffy-haired, expressionless Sherlock.

"Jesus! Sherlock-"

"I'm sorry." Sherlock was looking somewhere over johns shoulder.

The unexpected words and tone of voice made John jump for the third time that day.

Panic flooded through him as he irrationally thought that Sherlock was apologizing for chasing women away, for being so sexy that he was making his friend wank off after they had a completely normal conversation, for inadvertently making him have a small mental breakdown after every hot shower.

Sherlock had probably already noticed dozens of tiny signs that told him what he had just been doing.

John wouldn't be surprised if he could deduce that John had a kink for the way he moved, and almost every physical feature the man possessed.

Was it possible to have a kink for a person? _God, what the fuck-_

The panic was gone in a second, and he put a hand over his eyes as he breathed a sigh out of his nose.

"it's ok, just don't stand so close to the door, why are you even-"

"No. John. I'm sorry."

Those pale eyes drifted directly to johns.

The expression on his face made John inhale sharply.

"Oh."

Sherlock just stood there, less than a foot away, staring down at john.

John felt like melting into a short-doctor-sized puddle under the full attention of those beautiful eyes.

A hand rose to cover his face. _Don't let him see these thoughts in your eyes._

_I don't want to have this conversation._

_Let's not do this._

"Let's not do this. Please. Just… it's ok. It's alright. I'm ok. I wasn't even surprised. The work is everything, I knew that. It was for the case," a small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, "I'm just… happy to contribute." He gazed straight ahead at Sherlock's chest.

He couldn't see it, but he still felt the stare pinning him on the spot.

Sherlock wasn't even dignifying that with an answer. His lanky frame just stayed there, blocking the door, trapping John.

The feeling of being hunted by a wild animal slammed into John again, for the second time in the last hour.

_Still just as hot._

His nose crinkled as he cringed.

_Fuck. Aren't I a little old to be thinking like a masochistic teenage girl?_

_What is my life even turning into?_

He found himself laughing manically at the thought.

His hand returned to the left side of his face, covering only one of his eyes as he dared to look back up at up at the consulting detective. Relief flooded his consciousness as he saw that the look of uncharacteristic sadness on Sherlock's face had faded into a look of confused amusement. The good doctor smirked wildly as caught his friend's eye, still shaking with completely inappropriate laughter.

Ever the brave soldier, he took a small step forward and wrapped his free arm around the taller man's waist, pulling Sherlock's tense form against him as he buried his face in his friend's chest.

"Listening to you apologize to someone always scares the hell out of me, you unsentimental sod."

_His shirt smells like laundry and tea. I bet this is the first time he's been hugged in years. Fuck, what am I doing? God, he should eat more, I can feel his ribs. This must have been bothering Sherlock for a while. I'm being apologized to by Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Christ. I should probably let go now._

John couldn't stop himself from nuzzling into the warm shirt one more time before taking a quick step back, suddenly remembering he was half naked. Against his best efforts, he felt his face go hot at the thought. The hand holding the towel in place tightened even more, his grey eyes falling to their nearly-touching feet outlined by the light tiles. The blush on his face deepened as he stood looking at Sherlock's perfect long feet.

The pitiful sound of john clearing his throat filled the tense silence.

"Good. Good talk Sherlock. Now, can I please leave the fucking bathroom," was the equally pitiful sentence john murmured after a few more seconds of incredibly awkward silence. He looked up from under his eyelashes just in time to see Sherlock roll his eyes and silently turn on his heels, gracefully disappearing around the corner with a dramatic flair of his bathrobe.

A long suffering sigh fell from John's lips as he took a moment to process what just happened then walked quickly to his room, collapsing back onto the door as soon as he closed it.

He covered his face with his hands again.

_Everything is so __**fucked.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: So, as you can see, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. This chapter is longer than the previous ones (because __**damn**__ I had not noticed how short they were).(edit: just kidding it's not longer I just get shit done this chapter... sort of)_

_ I also raised the rating to be on the safe side because I briefly mention drugs, gore, and I already briefly mentioned masturbating (__wow I should write a children's book! oh my god I'm a terrible person for writing this AN).__ Please review if you feel like it!_

* * *

Later that night Sherlock found himself curled deeply into the couch again, desperately counting the stitches on the back of it while listening to the last notes of Vivaldi's Winter dramatically finish in his head, his long white fingers tightening their grip on the union jack pillow fastened to his chest. Blocking out the sounds of John's breathing from upstairs was effortless, as long as he kept his mind busy and endeavored to control his sensory intake.

Ok, so maybe it wasn't effortless.

But, Sherlock had effort to spare. He was dreadfully bored; it wasn't like he didn't have the capacity to ignore his surroundings. In fact, he was doing a pretty commendable job at violently pushing everything John related out from his brain.

Right now he was counting stitches, reviewing dozens of cold cases Lestrade had thrown at him, contemplating which concerto he should play through next, and remembering the euphoria of sitting back and letting his heart pump Diacetylmorphine through his veins-

I should get some-

What bad would a little heroin do-

God I need some- I still have my needle hidden in the bookshelf-

Or there's a man who so obviously sells cocaine four blocks away from Bart's -

No. John had said no. Mrs. Hudson had looked absolutely mortified at the thought. Anything stronger than nicotine patches was completely out of the question. He growled as he flung himself off the couch, his entire consciousness latching on to that one internal mention of john and using it to drown all of his other internal monologues with thoughts of his flatmate. The union jack pillow went sailing over his head as he stalked towards his bedroom, slapping another nicotine patch on his forearm as he flung his bedroom door open, fully intending to wrap himself in his bed sheets and to start reciting the periodic table in a pathetic attempt to rein his thoughts back into their usual organized chaos.

Everything is his head went abruptly silent as the flat became noisier, the faint creaking sounds from the bedframe upstairs filling the air around him like a suffocating fog. John was moving. Why was john moving?

Oh. Yes. Nightmares. Obvious.

Nightmares I am partially responsible for.

He grabbed another nicotine patch as he slunk up the stairs.

John was curled up on his side, his entire body surrounded in a tangle of blankets with a pillow held tightly in his arms, covering most of his face and chest.

John was so small.

But John wasn't small. John was brave and fantastic and intimidating and surprising.

So how could he look so small? How could Sherlock's best friend fit into a curled up 5'6 frame?

_No matter how strong you think he is, you'll break him. You added another layer of trauma to his already damaged psyche. You're breaking him you idiot._

The consulting detective closed his eyes tightly as he hovered at the side of the bed, looking like an upset skeleton with a halo of moonlit curls.

John mumbled something into his pillow- Sherlock almost tripped on his own feet as he scrambled back towards the wall behind him. Only especially bad nightmares were accompanied with sleep talking, and almost every time John started to get vocal Sherlock had to leave the house and wander around the dark alleys of London, hoping against hope that someone would just happen to commit murder within his hearing.

"_Nonono Sherlock. Mines. Hound's not real. Mines are real. Don't run don't run. Can't shoot mines._" Sherlock winced as John whispered slurred words into fabric.

The pillow John was curled around was held tighter as he started to push his face into it even more, the same way he had pushed his face against Sherlock's T-shirt earlier today.

_I could be that pillow. Actually, I would probably make a terrible pillow._

_An inconsiderate and annoying pillow._

_A bony pillow that encourages nightmares._

_I need a smoke._

John pressed his face against that god dammed pillow again.

Spidery hands covered Sherlock's face as he leaned back harder into the wall, biting his tongue. Sherlock only bit his tongue when john was doing something adorable, and it happened quite often, actually. Of course, that wasn't the adjective Sherlock used to describe these occurrences. He always told himself it was annoying.

Completely pointless, aggravating, confusing, and annoying.

"_Murray. Murray no don't go please no. Mines, Murray. Keep your legs. Keep your legs. I need you. Nonono. I can't stitch your legs back together. I'm trying. I'm trying_." These last few words were accompanied with a sob. Sherlock kept his face in his hands, wincing again.

See, Sherlock had read john's military file, he'd read it the day they met, and he knew who Joe Murray was.

_Bits of gore spread on the ground. A small crater. Half of a burnt torso. Blood stains. Empty eye sockets. Burnt dog tags._

At first the pictures had interested him, the detached scientist in him estimating the distance the charred body parts had flown away from the explosion, wondering about the speed at which human eyes melted at various temperatures. Anderson had looked so terrified upon finding the eye's in the microwave. The thought made Sherlock smirk.

But he'd read on, discovering that Murray had been in John's platoon for months, stumbling upon group pictures taken at base camps, pictures where everyone was alive and smiling, Murray always standing next to John. Sherlock had closed the file after seeing a picture of them sitting together with Murray's arm around John's shoulder, beers held up towards the camera.

He'd still concluded the experiment with the eye's though.

"_Hound. Sherlock. Run_," John's trigger finger twitching against bed sheets. "_No. No stop. Please… please. Teeth. I can't. So much blood. Have to put Sherlock back together,_" John sobbed.

Sherlock was assaulted with the mental image of a big black dog tearing someone apart, along with the memories of john shooting the cabbie through the heart, through two windows and across a courtyard, John shooting the dog at devils hollow with a blank face, hitting it three times after Lestrade had missed, John staring at the mine explosion like it was something that happened every day, like it was boring.

"_I can't fix you Sherlock. I'm trying. I'm trying_."

That was when Sherlock broke.

He pushed himself away from the wall, taking long silent strides until he reached john's bedside and getting down on his knees. Most soldiers with PTSD didn't wake up calmly, he knew too well (briefly remembering a case where the husband broke his wife's neck upon being woken up from a nightmare), and he flipped on the lamp next to the bed before gently putting a hand on John's good shoulder, careful to stay one long arm's length away.

"John," his voice broke, "John, it's Sherlock. It's ok. Everything is fine. Please," his voice broke again, "Nothing is wrong. Wake up."

John struggled under Sherlock's hand, holding the pillow in his grasp tighter as he kept talking into the fabric, his unending mantra of "no," getting slightly louder.

Sherlock tried a few more times to wake him up, his voice getting increasingly desperate each time.

"Oh for god's sake!"

The bed springs squeaked as Sherlock crawled onto the bed, wrapping spidery limbs around John's body and effectively pinning his arms art his sides.

* * *

_AN: so many authors' notes! Alright, two things. One, I accidentally created a pretty sweet headcanon with the eyes experiment from A Study In Pink don't you think? No? fine. Whatever. Two, I personally see Sherlock as atheist, or someone who just doesn't give a fuck about that sort of thing. Contemplating our existence and the possibility of a higher deity takes up too much space on the hard drive (and I see john as agnostic but that's not what this is about). Sherlock uses the word god sometimes in canon, and it's part of his syntax. I know I'm probably making a big deal out of this, and I don't want to offend anyone, but it just bothers me when authors give characters completely OOC religious views. _

_Sorry for ranting. :D_


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: It's ridiculous how happy a handful of favs and reviews make me. Thanks, everyone who did. You made my mont- day. Why. Why would you. why have you stuck around for four chapters. _

_Sorry this chapter wasn't up for a while, I'm going to be away from home until school starts._

_Oh god. School._

_LOTS OF STUFF HAPPENS IN THIS CHAPTER. OF THE EMOTIONAL AND SEXUAL VARIETIES. THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER SO FAR AND I HOPE IT'S YOURS TOO. ENJOY._

* * *

John woke up feeling crushed, hot, and confined, his consciousness flickering from Afghanistan to the near darkness of his bedroom.

Naturally, a year's worth of adrenaline started pumping through his veins.

He started thrashing around as ferociously as he possibly could, but the weight on his chest and the constricting hold on his arms only seemed to get more intense as he struggled. Trying to kick was equally as fruitless, it seemed that the pressure holding down his body went all the way down to cover all of his thighs and curl under his shins.

"John, you aren't going to accomplish much if you choose to continue what you're doing." Sherlock's sarcasm was muffled in the mattress.

The sound of that velvety baritone shocked John into stillness, his heavy breathing and racing heartbeat filling the following silence.

"God, I was wondering how long it would take for you to get it out of your bloody system…"

More breathing filled silence.

"I was talking to you constantly for about one hundred and ten seconds. How long could one small person squirm like a deranged wolverine before they start to see reason?" Sherlock chuckled right next to John's ear, raising his head from where he had had it tucked over John's shoulder to press his face against the still thrumming pulse in the smaller man's neck.

It was about right then that John's brain finally caught up to the situation.

A normal person would have questioned why their crazy flatmate was in their room, or why they had tried to wake him up from a nightmare in the first place, or you know, at least they would have questioned why someone was in their damn bed.

But, as he was painfully and constantly reminded of, John Watson was not "normal".

Sherlock had spread out right down the middle of john's chest, wrapping his arms around John's torso to hold back the soldier's punches and stretching his long body out so that his hips were aligned with John's lower thighs, wrapping those fucking _perfect_ legs under John's calves to keep him from kicking.

Oh, _and_ Sherlock had his face pressed against his neck.

And now he was hard.

Fucking splendid.

John threw his head back into his pillow to avoid absolutely all possible eye contact with the image of Sherlock lying on top of him, and to delay the inevitable/necessary conversation they would have to have about this entire clusterfuck of a situation.

His face burned as he thought about how Sherlock would definitely be able to feel his erection pressing into his lean stomach.

_God, has it always been so hot in this room?_

Thankfully he didn't have much time to sort out his panicked thoughts because Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed John's problem almost immediately, snapping his head away from john and laying still for a few seconds.

John could almost see his friends face, probably wearing the contemplative expression Sherlock adapted when he tried to analyze large amounts of new evidence.

He waited for snide comments about his sexuality, for a surprised exclamation, for him to get _bloody of off him_ and leave the room to incorporate this new information about his flatmate with his perceived illustration of John's person.

But Sherlock, as he often did, took every scenario John had made in his head and crushed them into tiny little pieces.

He pulled his slender limbs out from under John and sat up on his knees, straddling john's upper thighs and spread his large –_perfect, brilliant, elegant- _hands on the sides of John's waist, gripping his T-shirt lightly, his face ethereal and his hair lit up from behind him like the halo that so often seemed to make its appearance in near darkness.

It seemed like the entire world had stopped breathing as Sherlock raised his pale eyes _–perfect, brilliant, glowing- _from his own fingers to john's blankly shocked face, looking directly into wide dark eyes as he thrust his hips forward smoothly, brushing his own erection against John's.

"Oh-oh fuck," John's hands scrambled against the crumpled bed sheets, his vision flashing brightly as he flung his head back against his pillow.

The room was almost completely silent, John's breathless panting sounding like the only noise in all of London.

The detective just sat there on john's hips with a blank facial expression, waiting for John to react or say something.

When John opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock wasn't moving he groaned in frustration, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes (how many times was he going to do that today?). He laughed at himself (how many times was _that _going to happen today?!) when he noticed he was shaking. It must be the adrenaline. Or, you know, the emotional turmoil from the nightmare. PTSD trauma and nerves and adrenaline. Completely legitimate reasons.

_Yeah. Not because you're fighting the urge to touch your male flatmate everywhere possible and fucking rip his clothes off… _

_Dammit._

Sherlock must have been getting impatient because he rocked forward again, making John curse and pant faster.

John took deep breaths for thirty seconds before speaking for the first time that night (well, the first time while he was awake).

"Sherlock," his voice broke and he sounded rather pathetic, "please get off of me."

_Please get off __**on**__ me-_

"Why should I?" Sherlock drawled, tightening his grip on John's shirt.

"You can't- you can't do this to me. You don't know what you're doing. I-"

"John, when have I _ever_ not known what I'm doing?"

_Oh my god that fucking voice, jesus-_

"You're my friend, my flatmate, a fucking _virgin,_ and I'm not-"

Sherlock pushed his hips forward again languidly.

"Fucking- jesus- stop-"

"You're not _what _John? Not _gay?_ Well, isn't that just so very _apparent _right now." Sherlock rocked forward with every extra burst of sarcasm. He looked composed and pale and fucking _gorgeous _when he was rolling his slim hips on top of john.

John didn't have a response to all that, so he just laid there, helpless, panting, and dying of arousal.

"All of those reasons are idiotic, and when you can think of something at least partially relevant I will get off of you and leave this room right away."

Sherlock parted his lips, his tongue swiping over his full bottom lip as he pushed their cocks together again, the long slow movement and the friction from john's boxers was fucking _torture_.

John gasped and bucked his hips up without meaning to.

"Fuck- sorry-"

Sherlock abruptly leaned forward, roughly covering the lower half of johns face with a long thin hand.

"Don't _ever_ be sorry. John. Don't _ever _tell me you're sorry." Sherlock growled, his murderous expression mere inches from John's wide eyes.

Sherlock could be _fucking terrifying _when he wanted to be.

The open bathrobe fell dramatically around them, pooling around the edges of John's body and creating a curtain from Sherlock's arched back to the top of the mattress. All John could see was Sherlock.

Light from the window behind John's bed fell faintly on the detective's face; accentuating his sharp cheek bones and making his auroral eyes positively _blaze,_ illuminating the wild curls framing his spectral white face and clenched jaw. His full pink lips were pressed together firmly.

He looked psychotic and magnificent and positively _feral._

John bucked his hips again, whimpering from behind Sherlock's hand.

The motion must have caught Sherlock off guard because his eyes softened slightly and he removed his hand, relaxing and lying flat on John again, completely blanketing him like a bony ragdoll.

John's breath hitched as his mad man pushed their foreheads together, propping himself up slightly on his elbows and spilling hot minty breaths against John's lips.

"I'm so sorry, John. You're the best friend I have ever had, and I used you. For an _experiment,"_ Sherlock bit that word out, "John. All you do is _help _me and _care_ for me and I _used_ you. I'm a bloody childish sociopath and not only do you actually stay with me but you care about me," his facial expression changed, his eye's widening in confusion and his eyebrows drawing together in frustration, "_Why _do you stay? Why do you _care_?" His eye's stayed locked on john's shirt collar, keeping his head down.

When John didn't answer right away he wrapped his hands tightly in the material on the soldier's shoulders, pulling towards him.

"I want to help. I want to _fix _you, and so far I've only made you worse. Don't leave me. No matter how much I break you don't leave me. I'm selfish and I need you functioning and _existing _next to me. Always. I'll do bloody anything to keep you." Sherlock twisted his hands into John's shirt again, gripping even tighter. "Anything." He pushed his face into John's neck and pulled his legs up next to John's sides, snaking his arms behind john's shoulders and crushing them together.

"John. John. My John-"

Sherlock's quite mantra and distraught cuddling were cut short by hands in his hair, gently pulling him back up to John's face so that the good doctor could softly press their lips together.

The kiss was chaste and heart wrenching and unexpected, and Sherlock untangled his hands from john's shirt to cover the sides of John's face with them.

John's face was wet with tears.

* * *

_AN: I thought that was a good stopping point (and I got lazy and didn't want to write anymore… haha sorry) I will make these precious boys have the sex eventually. I promise. Next chapter._

_So when I was writing Sherlock's emotional breakdown I had three things in mind:_

_fuCKING RIECHENBACH FALLS_

_the fact that he has never had friends and everyone has always hated him. (that bastard from the blind banker. Don't even get me fucking started)_

_John watson's eating disorder. If you are unfamiliar with it you can read a short little passage explaining it here post/47567082889/gini-baggins-what-john-has-a-depr ession_

_Reviews make me feel all warm and fuzzy. _

_I've been ditched at a relative's house for three weeks, hundreds of miles away from anything, so sorry if I don't write regularly._

_If you want to talk or give me writing tips my tumblr url is appropriatelypessimistic _

_Wow that sounded pathetic. Bye! Have fun, be safe, do what you want._


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